


Hide and Seek

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Parentlock, Platonic Romance, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock aren't a couple, by any means aside from business and paying for the rent. Sherlock comes back from a routine check up with the network that turns out to be not-so-routine. He's adopted a boy out of the underground lifestyle he'd been forced into, and both flat mates are innately drawn into becoming a brilliant family of three, until someone finds out he's not Sherlock's main interest anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> Tags probably added later.
> 
> Based off of a Parentlock gif set by karlimeaghan on Tumblr

John would always say he wasn’t gay, and Sherlock would say sex never interested him.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t be partners, per-say. Sherlock— inept, brilliant Sherlock—would do anything to keep the friendship as his anti-drug, and John Watson felt the same soothing effects by the detective. He was controlled danger, and yet completely discord, with all his body parts in random appliances that he needed to scrub for hours before daring to cook in again. The experiments led to them going out to Speedy’s while the flat’s natural old-book and furniture smell came back or ordering in Thai when the fridge contained zero food. After Baskerville, things eased between the two flat mates, both realizing the need for each other’s company. Irene Adler was dead and gone, no longer a distraction to Sherlock’s intellect or John’s patience, and even Moriarty was unheard of for the few months they had a break in trouble. Plenty of cases still came, though most were easy and earning Sherlock some credit among the people of London without having to chase down taxis or suspects. That still left plenty of time for John and Sherlock to go about their own business, including now.

 _Sherlock’s been gone for a while,_ John drummed his fingers while the kettle boiled. _As long as he’s not catatonic in a sewer and remembers to eat, I suppose that’s normal._ Two days, it had been to his memory. Sherlock sometimes spaced out for longer or went to tracking a potential criminal but never a routine trip. He’d simply pulled on his coat and hastily tied his scarf, mumbling a ‘going out’. Three hours later John received a text from him. “Checking in with the network. Longer than anticipated. Change the water for the kidneys. –SH” He stared at the message, baffled: since when did Sherlock send word he was going to be away, or even alive? Now it was two days and a fresh jar for the kidneys to float later. Two days and the flat was eerily silent as violin composing was not occurring and no clients were coming in. It was as if Sherlock being out meant John’s life ground to a stand-still. Everything was dull, and even his word choice was gravitating towards Sherlock’s usual mannerisms. The kettle whistled, jerking John back into the otherwise silent present. The telly wasn’t even offering good enough background noise, and he was debating going down to the pub to find Stamford, or maybe a new girlfriend.

The door downstairs shut with a rickety click, John’s ears catching it only from experience of Sherlock’s observation. He heard plastic bags moving around: Mrs. Hudson returning from Tesco, probably. He took the kettle off the fire, looking at his empty mug for half of a moment before padding over to the door. His kicked aside his loafers, opening the door only in his socks. “Did you need any help, Mrs—” His jaw froze on the word, watching as Sherlock ascended the stairs, bags filling his arms. “You got the _milk?_ ”

“I believe that product slipped my mind. Here.” John’s thick arms were suddenly filled with plastic bags. He stumbled only slightly at the top of the steps, looking over the produce as Sherlock hopped down the back down, likely to retrieve more bags. He raised an eyebrow, entering the flat and setting the bags down on the kitchen counter. He caught a bag of fruit from falling away, straightening all the items and rooting through some of them. His eyes caught cereal boxes, more assorted fruits, bread, lunch meats , and everything a kitchen may need (aside from milk). Another bag from a different store (as the labeling on the sides was different) was instead filled with what looked like…

“Sherlock?” He called, the door to 221b still open. He dug around, pulling out t-shirts and jeans too small for an adult. Definitely nothing for his silly disguises and what good would children’s clothes be to an experiment? He turned as Sherlock’s shoes being kicked against the wall was heard, jaw dropping again.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John felt the words leave him in a single breath. Sherlock sidestepped John and set another armful of bags on the counter, though the door shutting behind him signaled that was the last of it. John continued to watch the door as it was shut.

“Yes, you can get the milk later.”

“No, Sherlock, what is—what is going on?” John tried to keep his voice down. Sherlock stared at him steadily, as innocent as he could look with his face that generally made him appear up to something. John wasn’t even looking at his flat mate, instead watching the small boy running his fingers over the mantelpiece, eying the skull curiously. “Why is there a—a kid here?”

“In time, Doctor. Would you be opposed to making dinner tonight? I believe I retrieved proper items.”

“Sherlock! I can’t just cook, you need to—” John bit the inside of his cheek. Sherlock was doing that thing: the thing from the Baskerville case when he’d supposedly drugged his tea with much-hated sugar. He was giving the sad, dejected puppy-dog look and John knew enough about his past to know he had plenty of practice putting on that face. His heart ached, eyes sliding back over to the boy before the items on the table. “I think I can manage something.”

Sherlock’s face was pleasantly aglow, as if that was thanks enough. John sighed but gave him a look that he hoped was familiar too: the look of “you’ve got some fucking explaining to do” before turning and heating the kettle for tea once more. Sherlock clambered away as John dug through the groceries, running recipes through his head that he could make a proper serving for three. He heard some sort of conversation occurring in the other room, Sherlock’s deep rumble not heard very well as John placed items in the fridge. John sighed, getting his pots and pans. Sherlock was terrible with children: bringing one to the flat made zero sense— even if the boy was a client, Sherlock would have no reason to buy him clothes and food. From the hurried glances John could focus on the child, he was very unkempt and filthy, and Sherlock was checking on his homeless network for the last two days. He wanted to explanation as soon as possible. He looked out into the room to ask just that and stopped.  Sherlock and the boy had disappeared for the moment and John knew where they were as the water in the bath started running.

John managed to make fried rice, using the sauces he kept in a drawer away from Sherlock’s experiments and the fresh chicken and eggs the brunette purchased. He wasn’t a brilliant chef, but by tasting and remixing he got the flavor that satisfied him, and hopefully his flat mate. He wondered if three portions was too much, given Sherlock’s usual avoidance of food. _I’ll force it down his throat, it must be four days since he last had something._ He decided, getting plates from his cabinet as well. Just as he got the table cleared of the clothing articles, most of the food already put away at safe distance to the kidneys, the water stopped running in the next room. He set the table, eyes flicking over to the other doorway to see what would transpire, or who would step through. He had just finished setting things out when Sherlock appeared, looking at the table and his eyebrows lifted.

“Ready?”

“Just finished.” John nodded, though Sherlock had already grabbed one of the bags of clothing before stalking out of the room once more. John frowned, hands braced on the back of one of the dining room chairs, looking at the pot of rice growing cold. He poured tea, knowing how Sherlock liked his and getting them both a cup while he waited. He bit his lip and glanced down the hall again, pacing as he resorted to getting a glass of water for the boy. The table was probably the most normal it had even been in the Baker Street flat, and it worried the good doctor.

Moments later, Sherlock returned. John now noticed he’d taken his coat off at one point and had the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, his scarf gone as well. The boy came in after him, now clean and wearing some of the new clothing Sherlock had undoubtedly purchased just to his small size. Washed now, John saw his hair was brown, darker at the roots than at the untrimmed edges. The hair hung over his eyes slightly, shading them as he followed behind the younger Holmes like he was lost. John figured that wasn’t far off the mark.  When Sherlock saw his tea he pulled a chair out, thanking John silently while the boy took the other open chair, looking at John from the corner of his eye. John found himself looking between the two of them before clearing his throat.

“Well, dig in, it’s getting cold.” He leveled his shoulders and took the lid off the pot, steam still pouring out as he did. The boy leaned back slightly, eyes wide and brushing his hair aside with his fingers. John eyed him for a moment more before taking his plate, spooning a helping onto it before setting it back in front of him. Sherlock held his plate up immediately afterwards, getting a stern look shot at him. John put an ample helping on his plate as well, shooting him one last look that he knew Sherlock could read: “you better eat it”. He served himself finally before starting with a sip of his tea. Their silverware clinked quietly as bites were taken, no conversation starting. John wished he’d turned the telly on because this silence was nauseating. Without Sherlock in the flat it was emptiness, but Sherlock in the flat with some unknown kid and no explanation was suffocating. John was always the one that didn’t know what was going on.

“This is very good, John.” He looked over to the detective just as another mouthful went past his lips. John smiled, pleased to see him eating, and eating with gusto.

“Maybe you should get the groceries more often.”  He remarked, taking a bite himself. Sherlock’s eye roll was expected. When Sherlock went back to stuffing his face, the boy across from him doing the same a bit more delicately, John pressed as gently as possible. “So, how was checking in on the network?”

“A few of them were being harassed for information, thus I had to go investigate.” He said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and slurring slightly around food. “Easily done, really. If it wasn’t for the severity of the information they could have handled it themselves.”

“What kind of severity?” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock shook his head, declaring the information unnecessary. John frowned. “Yeah, okay. Whatever dirty secrets London has are now safe with the slums. You’re starting to act like Mycroft with all this classified business.”

“They were being questioned about very exclusive underground drug dealings and trafficking, most of which are severe to the point of gang troubles or even a certain web of criminals.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, more looking through the side of John’s head than at him. John nodded, looking back to his half-cleared plate before continuing to eat. The silence settled again, weighing down John more than carrying his ammunitions and med gear had been in Afghanistan. Sherlock stood, his plate clean and briskly deposited it in the sink. John looked over at the freshly-bathed boy as his flat mate was no longer drilling holes into the side of his head.

“What’s your name?” He asked, turning on his friendly doctor voice. Most kids he saw at the clinic were blubbering over scraped knees or sniffling with runny noses in his office. The boy had remained completely silent even with Sherlock and John basically talking as if he wasn’t there. He looked up from his plate, John seeing his eyes were a remarkable mixture of blue and green.

“John.” He said, his voice with a hint of rasp in it. John gave a small smile, glancing to the glass at the table. The boy caught the gesture and took a long drink. “I know it’s your name too; you’ve had it longer.”

“Maybe just a little longer. Where are you from, John?”

“I think I lived in London for as long as I recall, sir, but I’ve been where Mr. Holmes was for a long while.” He spoke more eloquently, his throat cleared, and yet still had the childish softness of consonants. He couldn’t be over nine years old, and that was a high number only because he seemed as lanky as Sherlock, though a more miniscule version.

“Where Sherlock was, so, the um, with the homeless network?”

“No, sir.” He responded. John frowned, raising an eyebrow until Sherlock patted the boy on the shoulder.

“I’ll take you to a room for the night. I believe it is customary for someone your age to be well to bed by this hour.” Sherlock said, not even looking at John Watson and effectively changing the subject. The younger John nodded, looking at his plate with some woe. John stood, finishing off his tea and smiling.

“We can keep the leftovers for later. You look beat.” He offered a hand, the boy handing his plate up to it. He stood quietly, the chair not even squeaking as he pushed it back.

“Thank you for the meal, sir.”

“You can call me John,” He smiled. “Follow Sherlock.” He had no idea where Sherlock wanted the boy to sleep but part of him prayed that it was his own bedroom. Sherlock’s room was no place for a kid, not with all the tobacco ash and taxidermy bird models. He put away the leftovers and piled the dirty dishes, not even wanting to spend time cleaning them as he stood in the lounge, arms crossed. Within five minutes Sherlock came back down the stairs from John’s bedroom, eyebrows rising as John was definitely waiting for him.

“I thought best if he were to be—”

“In my room, I agree. Yours is the pits.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed but John walked around and took a seat in his chair, pointing to Sherlock’s across from him. The detective hesitated, shock etched onto his face until he dropped down in the chair, fingers folded in his lap. “Explain, now. You can’t just abduct children and keep them, Sherlock!”

“That’s not what transpired,” the detective’s voice was petulant.

“That’s what it looks like!”

“No, John. Please,” Sherlock let out a sigh, his fingers rubbing his temples. The detective looked tired too: probably running on as much sleep as he had food. “I went to the homeless network, and when I learned of the questioning about the underground, I had to go make sure something wasn’t afoot. Someone that knows about an exclusive drug ring wouldn’t ask a homeless person about it, especially not in broad daylight. I was curious.” He swallowed, looking back to the kitchen suddenly. John waved a hand and got up, retrieving the detective’s tea and urging him on with another motion. “So I snuck down and infiltrated the place. I, it is embarrassing to admit, but you know plenty of my past. It wasn’t hard to get my way inside. I was cautious of Mycroft seeing me or being recognized, so it took much longer than initially thought.” He took the tea he was offered and drank a sip.

“Right, you’re master of disguise. How does sneaking into a criminal drug scam get—” John frowned at the look Sherlock gave him, but shut up.

“While I was ‘coercing’ some regulars for information about who had been leaking the location above ground, I got bad attention from one of the groups. They told me about their human trafficking and wanted to take me in as a sponsor, since I was playing a good enough part to appear as one of the network. They offer them drugs to sell or advertise for them, which is how they seemed to be getting asked about the system. They led me down there and—” He sighed, running a bony hand through his hair. “John, it’s much too descriptive. No matter how hard I try deleting this place will not let it leave my sights. For a fraction I felt…”

“Felt what?” John frowned. Maybe he’d taken up a few habits from his therapist as well.

“ _Felt,_ John. Just a crashing wave over me. It was wretched. It took all of my strength to not call Mycroft that instant,” Sherlock rolled his neck, trying to loosen his tense muscles. “Though I did, eventually. I saw no traces of Moriarty’s web there, personally, but it is hard to distinguish who works for him. I did see however…”

“John,” John finished, glancing back at the stairs. “Jesus, Sherlock!”

“I was furious. That _feeling_ was so great. I tried to keep my cover and propositioned with the men to let me take him. Once out of earshot I had to explain to him. John you know I don’t—”

“Yes, I got you.” The doctor nodded, running a hand through his own hair. “You just snuck a kid out of some high-class exclusive sex and drug trade business and brought him to our flat.”

“He’s safe here, John. I gave the men false information and they will not be seeing William Benson again.” John rolled his eyes at the ridiculous name, head still in his hand.

“Sherlock. You realize you just adopted a child, don’t you?” John let the silence span for a few moments before stating this. Sherlock’s emerald eyes shot up to Johns from under his hair, his eyes wide. He appeared paler than John had ever seen, and it made him lean forwards just slightly in concern. John’s shoulders dropped as he watched Sherlock, uncomfortable silence settling once more.

“Yes, John, I realize that. I realize that very much, now.” Sherlock looked down at where he’d subconsciously steepled his fingers just under his nose, thoughts racing at a thousand miles an hour. Sherlock’s expression turned somber, slumping in his seat with an exhale. “I need your help.”

“We’ll do our best.”

John and Sherlock were not a couple, they weren’t even within the phases of courtship or flirting. But they were a family, closer than brothers and yet kept to a modest distance, even with a family of three.

 

It was obvious within the first week that John (the child) was very bright. He took to Sherlock instantly, following his pacing around the flat step for step, almost always managing to stop before colliding with the lanky man’s back. John Watson faintly wondered how the boy would keep up with Sherlock when his mind was on a case, not on what to do about their situation. Regardless, whenever Sherlock did something, John the younger asked why. Sherlock was short, albeit rude, but the boy never minded. His turns of phrases were clever whenever he did decide to speak, which still wasn’t often, but often enough. Every mumbling of Sherlock’s was pinpointed on, and if Sherlock was within one of his dazes John came to the doctor instead, absorbing all the knowledge he could about the detective. Frankly, it was adorable how Sherlock could leave such an impression on the boy when he knew absolutely nothing about people, let alone impressionable children. John once came down in the middle of the night for a glass of water and had to stop, seeing the lamp by the couch turned on. Sherlock was lying down as he usually was, a book held open between long fingers and John pressed into his side, completely asleep. Watson chuckled, seeing the slightest quirk of a grin from Sherlock in response. The detective enjoyed the company.

 

By the middle of the second week, however, something became unbearable to the younger Holmes.

“No, no!” Sherlock growled, causing Mrs. Hudson and John to look over at him. John the younger was feasting upon biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had brought the residents of 221b, not knowing about the newest addition. She was instantly in love with the dark haired boy, insisting he eat all the biscuits. Naturally, and John had no qualms following the command.

“Sherlock, come now, you can have some too.” Mrs. Hudson scolded, still holding out the tray for tiny fingers to pick at. “I’m sure little John here will share.”

“Not the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson!” He groaned, hands gliding through his curled locks. “The name, the _name_. I can barely think when my thoughts are of two Johns.”

“Well, beg my pardon.” Watson lifted his chin and scoffed.

“John,” Sherlock said, inwardly groaning as both the boy and the doctor looked at him. “This won’t do. Is John your birth name?”

“No sir, Mr. Holmes.” The younger replied around bites of biscuit. Even after this time he refused to call Sherlock by his name, and infrequently did the same for John. Watson and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks. “Those men just gave me one when they found me, since I told them I didn’t have one myself.”

“Not have a name for yourself? What sort of place were you raised in, young lad?” Mrs. Hudson sounded flabbergasted. Watson put a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head to signal a conversation for another date.

“John is very unbecoming, you look nothing like Doctor Watson.”

“Unbecoming?” John frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sherlock, just because you don’t like someone’s name means you can insult it.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at the boy, silently conveying something. John could practically see them both telepathically communicating with each other. Honestly, Sherlock had taken to the lad like a new serial killer case.

“It’s alright, Dr. Watson sir, I don’t rather like my name either.” The boy replied, looking at Mrs. Hudson. She looked like she might pinch his cheek and suffocate him in a hug, but instead offered him another biscuit, which he ate quickly.

“It is settled, then. A new name is in order, considering you’re starting a new chapter of your life.” Sherlock stood straight, crossing his arms as John had. John stared at him with bewilderment until the lanky man caught the stare with a shift of his eyes. “Well, a cliché turn of phrase but fitting none-the-less.”

“No more telly for you, ever.” John sighed. “Well, little one, you can pick your own name, then, if you really want to.”

“I’m not so good on ideas, sir. I mean, I know a bunch of names for lads, but I don’t rather want to think of them and make it mine.”

“Then something unique, dear. I can find you a book to pick through, if you’d like? Mrs. Turner must have some, she’d had plenty of children in her marriages to—“

“Mrs. Hudson is right, something unique indeed.” Sherlock cut her off, letting John breathe a sigh of relief. The boy pursed his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. John’s jaw nearly dropped as he could see the similarities between the boy’s thinking and Sherlock’s, even after this short time. The way his eyes seemed to stare through objects and space itself, glittering with rapid thoughts. He was sure he’d seen him paging through Sherlock’s encyclopedia’s and academic journals, and he could see the pages turning in his eyes now.

“Mr. Holmes, do you have a second name?” He looked doe-eyed up at the detective. Sherlock blinked, eyes wide and eyebrow raised.

“I do not, I’m afraid.”

“Dr. Watson?” The boy’s attention turned just as quickly, practically pleadingly. John opened and closed his mouth a few times, aiming for a protest, but he couldn’t stop looking at the face the child wore.

“Hamish. Hamish is my second name.” He responded. The boy looked down, lips moving but no sound leaving them. Finally, he stood up straight.

“I want to be called Hamish, sir.”

“What?” John blinked, taken aback.

“I know I took your first name too, but can I have your second one? Do you use it?” The boy frowned suddenly, shoulders sagging. The dejected look appeared even more despairing on a child’s features.  

“No, no I don’t use it. It’s all yours, Hamish.” The boy, Hamish’s, eyes widened before a smile broke out onto his face. John’s and Sherlock’s eyes did the same and briefly glanced at each other, having never seen him so alight even after cleaning all the evidence of his lower life away. John was more surprised when Hamish’s slim arms wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed against his soft torso.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. For giving me something I can have myself.”

“Call me John, Hamish.” John carefully threaded his fingers through the coarse changing-color hair. He observed the strands between his fingers, before looking at Mrs. Hudson. “Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn’t happen to have some clippers, would you?” The woman nearly dropped the tray she’d been carrying.

“Oh, oh yes! Please boys, leave this to me! Hamish, dear, let’s go trim up those bangs of yours, you’ve been pawing at them all this time!” She gingerly, motherly, affectionately took Hamish’s hand leading him away to her section of the apartments, the smile still on his face. The detective and doctor stood at the entryway for several moments, before Sherlock released a breath of air.

“Hamish.”

“Seems so,” John nodded, not sure how else to reply.

“You told me your middle name once before: You said I should name mine and Irene’s child that.” John scowled, glancing up to see the slightest quirk of a smile on Sherlock’s face.

“Well, he asked. And it is kind of fitting, right? Your child?”

“Yes, John.” The detective nodded, looking out the window across the lounge. “Our child.”


End file.
